


March of Progress

by shini02



Category: An American Tail, An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, Fievel's American Tails, Rango (2011)
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shini02/pseuds/shini02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have to get worse before they get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Things happen. 

Things like death, for example, and though he had known it would come eventually, he hadn't expected it to come so soon for the old dog. The news hits him like a ton of bricks, and for a few long and numb minutes, Fievel refuses to believe it. But Wylie had been old when he met him, and that was ten years ago, and over the course of those years the sheriff's health had started to deteriorate. It started with weak knees and sore hips, and moved on to poor eyesight and a constant shortness of breath. His mind had started to go, too – but Fievel preferred not to think about that. Those days, when Wylie had seemed lost in his own town, a dead-eyed phantom passing through with little to no recollection of who he, or anyone else, was... Those were some of the worst days in Fievel's life. 

“It was a long time coming, my son,” his father says, a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder, and Fievel thinks it's supposed to be comforting, but it really isn't. He shrugs Papa's hand off, nods, sucks in a breath so big it hurts his chest and swallows the hard and heavy lump that's been forming in his throat. 

“He's gone to a better place,” his mother says somewhere off to the side, and he can't be bothered to look over. Something inside tightens and twists and in a heartbeat he feels a fleeting anger in place of the overwhelming sorrow. He's heard people say that before when someone has died, that they've gone to a better place and their suffering is over, and he used to take comfort in those thoughts, but not now. Because all he can think of is his own hurt and his own loss, and it's not fair, and as childish as it sounds and is, he just wants Wylie back. 

But Wylie's not coming back, and this is just the way things are now. 

“Are you going to be alright?” his sister asks, and his anger and sadness swell inside him, tangling together into something horrid and ugly. In that moment, that has to be the stupidest question he has ever heard, and that's saying something because Fievel believes, wholeheartedly, that there's no such thing as a stupid question. 

But he knows Tanya's heart is in the right place, and so he catches himself and shrugs instead, waving her sympathy away. “I guess so,” he tells her honestly. It hurts now, and it will hurt tomorrow and maybe even years from now, but he likes to think that, someday, it won't, and he really will be alright. 

For now, though, he would really just rather be alone. Not to wallow in his grief, but to come to terms with it instead. So he excuses himself, says he needs some air and pretends not to hear Yasha asking him to stay as he leaves the house. He'll make it up to her, he promises himself, but first he needs to get his head on straight again. She's already upset, more for his loss than her own, if any at all, and he doesn't want to do or say anything that may accidentally wound her further. 

Outside, Fievel's almost instantly aware of the many sad eyes on him. It was no secret in Green River just how close he and Wylie had been, and he can feel the immense weight of a whole town's condolences settling uneasily on his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, he feels out of place, unsure of himself, and wishes he could hide away somewhere until this whole thing blows over. But he knows better, that he can't, and so he doesn't, and he trudges on through town, accepting one unsure apology after another. 

It doesn't take long before Tiger finds him. The cat's shadow encompasses him, and Fievel feels oddly smaller than he really is as he stands at his best friend's feet. He looks up at Tiger's face, and feels his own expression contorting. The weak smile he'd tried to put on falters, and he ends up frowning, and it's okay because Tiger understands him better than anybody else ever has. 

Tiger frowns back down at him, and Fievel knows his own grief must weigh heavy in his chest. Wylie and Tiger hadn't always seen eye to eye, but Fievel knew the cat thought highly of him, that he owed some small part of who he turned out to be to the lawman. While he doubts Tiger even feels a fraction of the loss he does, he doesn't doubt that Tiger's hurting right now, too. 

Fievel swallows hard, but this time the lump won't go down, and he lets out a shaking sigh before he lowers his gaze down to the small patch of sand and gravel between them. His small chest heaves and, under the brim of his hat, he blinks back undesired tears. But they come anyway, and even if he hadn't wanted Tiger to know, the way he wipes at his face with the back of his sleeve gives him away. 

Thankfully, Tiger doesn't tell him it's okay, or that it will be okay, or that he's sorry. The cat simply takes him up into his paws and walks to the edge of town, and then passed it. Fievel doesn't ask where they're going because he already knows. There's a rock a few minutes out of town, one where Wylie had given him some of the best advice anybody had ever been kind enough to give him. After that one particular sunset, if he ever felt unsure of himself that's where he would go. Sometimes he would spend minutes out there, other times whole days. 

An odd ache settles in his chest as Tiger sets him down on the rock, and then takes a seat beside him. His tears have dried, but his eyes are still red as he looks sidelong up at his best friend. Tiger has this small, sad smile as he stares out into the horizon, and the longer Fievel stares at it, the more at ease he begins to feel. Leave it to Tiger to know how to make the best of a bad situation. 

It will take more than this to ward away the heartache, but he thinks it's a step in the right direction.

He takes a seat after a few moments and let's out a quiet sigh. “Thanks,” he murmurs quietly. “I think I needed this.” 

“I know,” Tiger says, looking down to the mouse beside him and smiling that sad smile again. “You're welcome, Fieve.” 

With some effort, Fievel returns the smile, and then they both look out into the desert. A silence almost settles between them, but Fievel speaks before it can. 

“It's gonna be okay,” he says, more to himself but if feels good to know Tiger's listening anyway. “I'm gonna be okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

The charade is over.

The snake is terrifying, but the truth is even more so. It takes only minutes for the hired gun to metaphorically squeeze the truth out of him, for the entire town to learn he's never been anything but a liar. A nameless little nobody who took advantage of a town full of kind, gullible fools. His intentions had been good, but he knows he can't talk his way out of this. Talking won't do him any good anymore, not here. 

The rattler coils around him, hisses his threats, and flings him forward to his knees. The crowd parts and he stands, beginning the long and slow walk away from a lie he had come to love too much. 

Beans stops him, asks him, “who are you?” 

He wishes he had an answer, but he doesn't. He keeps walking and he doesn't look back. At some point, he thinks he should throw the sheriff's badge away, but it's all he will physically have left to remember Dirt by. Some part of him thinks that should be motivation enough to get rid of it, to toss it out into the dunes and let nature have it, but he can't. The badge and all that comes with it – the lies, the name, the memories – mean too much. 

There are some things you have to hold on to, even if it's painful to do so. These are the things that help a person learn and grow and become better. Maybe, he tells himself, he'll look at the badge one day and be able to laugh about the whole thing. 

For now, he doubts that, but it only seems to make sense that he would start this journey by lying to himself. It's all he's ever been good at, really. 

He walks until night is bleeding into morning again. He hadn't realized he had been walking for so long, and takes a moment to ponder how he didn't die out in the desert during the night. He's surprised, but perhaps a little disappointed, because this is the path his mind is wandering down now. What does he have to live for? There must be something, he decides, because he can't think of a good enough reason to die, either. Though, that may just be another intricate lie he's telling himself, and in reality he's simply too afraid to die. 

He doesn't know, and he doesn't think about it for much longer. 

There's a town in the distance, he can see it through the glare of the early morning sun. He hesitates but decides to push on toward it. He won't get involved, won't stay longer than he has to, and then he'll be on his way. He doesn't know where he's going, but the glimmer of the badge on his dusty vest is a quick reminder that wherever he ends up, it can't and won't be here. 

He's not even from the west, what fool's chance did he ever think he'd have surviving out here? It would have been better if he had never fallen off that cart in the first place. The freedom had been welcomed, but living a sheltered and dull life inside a tank as some human's exotic pet wasn't so bad, in retrospect. At least nobody ever wound up hurt then. 

He wonders if his humans tried to look for him when they realize he was gone. He doubts it. 

By the time he reaches the edge of the town, it must be close to noon hour. The sun rests at its highest in the sky, and his shadow is but a dark spot that shuffles along under his feet. His steps have grown heavy and slow, despite the itching pain the heat is causing beneath his scales. He wants nothing more than to get out of the heat, to get some food in him, to sleep – 

He needs to keep moving, but he can feel his body beginning to give, and sleep just sounds so wonderful right about now –

When he collapses, he's vaguely aware of how the sand burns against his scales before everything goes dark. 

-

“Mama! Mama, he's waking up!” 

“Yasha! Give him room! Don't crowd!” 

“Aw, Mama, I wasn't crowding...” 

The voices begin muffled, though gradually gain in volume, and as his consciousness returns, he recognizes both as female. When the blur leaves his vision, his gaze is settled on a ceiling for only a moment before he goes in search of the source of the voices. He turns his head to the side and sees two mice. He assumes they're mother and daughter. The mother is sorting through freshly washed laundry, and the daughter is standing quietly by her side now. 

“So you have decided to join the land of the living again, hm?” the mother asks, her accent thick and one he hasn't heard before. She sounds as though her patience with him is already worn thin. 

“I – I guess so, ma'am,” he replies quietly, and forces himself to sit up. His back and neck and shoulders crack, stiff joints protesting this sudden onslaught of movement. 

“You guess so,” she retorts and shakes her head. “You were unconscious for two days. Just what were you doing wandering alone out in the desert, hm?”

He furrows his brow, recalling the events that led up to his aimless trek through the sands. He doesn't wish to tell her any of that, and so he doesn't quite know what to say. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, waiting for the words, the right lie to come forth. Nothing comes, and so he shakes his head and offers the mother a weak smile. “Nothing, ma'am.” 

“Nothing,” she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Nothing could have found you dead, sir. And would have, too, had my son not found you and brought you home.” 

“Your son?” he asks, glancing around the room. He sees no other mice, just this mother and her young daughter, whom has taken to quietly staring at him from across the way. He thinks of Priscilla when he looks at her, and imagines she's probably never seen a lizard like him before, if any at all. He had been only one of few in Dirt. 

“Mhmm,” the daughter speaks up, breaking him away from his thought process. “My brother saved your life!” 

“Yasha!” the mother scolds, and the daughter smiles up at her, defiant and stubborn. 

“Well, it's true! He did, Mama!” 

He can't help but smile softly, chuckling at her enthusiasm and excitement. “Well, where is this brother of yours? I'd like to thank him, if that's alright.” 

“Fievel is out right now,” the mother says. 

“I can go find him!” Yasha suggests and her mother fixes her with stern stare. 

“You will not. You will leave him be,” she scolds and then looks back at him, brow furrowing as she fists her hands on her hips. “And you, you will go wash.” 

This is when he realizes he is caked in dirt and grime, and he feels guilty for having mussed any clean sheets. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and, looking down, realizes his badge is gone. He doesn't think to ask, figures it must have fallen off at some point during his journey. Maybe it's better off that way. 

“Yes, ma'am,” he agrees and stands, and more joints pop and crack in protest. “Where's the – ?” 

“Yasha will show you,” the mother instructs and the little girl nods, and again it's her enthusiasm that makes him smile in spite of himself. 

“Come on, mister,” she says and shuffles over to him, taking hold of his hand and beginning to tug him along and out of the spare room. She leads him down the short hallway and to the bathroom. She lets go of his hand and rocks back and forth on the balls of her heels.

“If you gimme your clothes, Mama'll wash them for you. She laid out extra in there,” she nods in the direction of the bathroom, “for you, for whenever you woke up.”

“This is all very generous of you,” he says softly and furrows his brow again as he looks down at the young mouse. She can't be more than ten or eleven, he assumes. 

She smiles at him, wide and bright and genuine. “It's no problem, mister.” There's a pause and then she gasps. “Oh! What's your name?”

He feels himself beginning to frown but stops, for her. He can't tell her he doesn't know, can't make up something new, and so he gives her the only name he's ever had.

“My name's Rango,” he tells her quietly. 

“Rango?” she echoes and giggles. “That's a funny name. My name's Yasha, but you prob'ly already heard Mama say that...”

“I did,” he agrees and cocks his head to the side. “It's been very nice to meet you, Yasha, and your Mama.” 

The young mouse smiles up at him again and nods. “You, too. You better start getting washed and gimme your clothes before Mama comes after us,” she grins, and he knows not to doubt that her mother would actually get on both of their cases if they were to stall any longer. 

“Sure thing,” he tells her and steps into the bathroom. He closes the door and strips behind it, then hands the bundle of dirty clothes to her through the small gap he creates between door and frame. She takes his clothes and makes her way back to her mother, and he chuckles quietly to himself, hearing the older mouse declaring what horrid conditions his clothing is in. 

Rango takes his time getting washed. It feels as though the dirt won't leave him, that it clings to and between and beneath his scales. This is only partially true, most of this sensation is in his mind, a metaphor for all the wrong he did. It will take more than water and soap to cleanse him completely, he realizes. So, when the actual dirt and grime and dust has left him, washed down the drain, he dries himself off and dresses in the clothing that had been left for him. 

The waist of the jeans rest loosely against his hips, and the sleeves of the shirt need to be rolled up, but won't complain while the clothes he left Dirt in are washed and dried. This family is already doing more for him than he could have ever expected from another living being. 

When he leaves the bathroom, he can hear Yasha's excited little voice from down the hall. 

“He's awake!” she proclaims, and then a new voice responds. 

“Oh, good. I was beginning to worry about him.” Another female, this one sounds older. He assumes her to be Yasha's older sister. 

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, he forces himself into the open and clears his throat. He catches the eyes of Yasha, and her older sister, whom stares at him for a few long seconds before smiling at him. Her smile is charming and it reaches her eyes, and he falters before returning the gesture. 

“Speak of the Devil,” the girl says, and steps forward, extending a hand to him. “My name's Tanya, and it's a pleasant change to see you up and about, Mr. Rango.” 

“Oh, just Rango is fine,” he assures her before taking her hand in his, giving her a small squeeze and a gentle shake. When he pulls his hand back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “It's nice to meet you, Tanya.” 

She smiles that smile at him again. It's not in him to return it this time. 

“I don't know when that brother of mine will be home,” she tells him, “but Mama insists you stay and eat something before you go on your way.” 

“I should have expected that,” he chuckles softly, stepping aside to allow both Tanya and Yasha to pass him. Yasha grabs his hand and leads him to the kitchen, then even pulls out a chair for him and urges him to sit at the table. 

“I see Mama's already left an impression on you,” Tanya comments, casting a glance over her shoulder. 

“She most certainly has,” Rango tells her honestly, turning his attention away from her and idly picking at some small splinters on the tabletop. 

“So, where were you heading, if you don't mind me asking?” 

“I... I don't really know,” he admits, and watches as Yasha sits across the table from him, content to just watch him for the time being. 

Tanya is quiet for a moment. “Do you have somewhere to go from here?” 

“Can't say I do,” he says softly. 

“I see,” Tanya says, and then he can tell she purposely busies herself with preparing food. It's an awkward conversation to have, and an even worse impression to leave on complete strangers. He thinks he must come off as some wayward, half-wit vagabond who had been searching for his death out in the desert. 

That assumption wouldn't be entirely off the mark, if he feels like being honest with himself. 

“You can stay here,” Yasha speaks up and smiles at him from across the table. Before he can protest, she continues. “Mama already said you could, and Papa won't mind! You seem like a really nice guy, and I wouldn't wanna see you out on your own.” 

“Oh – I – uh,” he stops and furrows his brow, sensing her genuine concern and honesty. He knows he could stay, and he probably should, but does he have the gall to take advantage of these people's kindness? He doesn't know if he can trust himself not to work them over again, as exaggeration and the yearn for attention are deeply rooted into his being. He doesn't have anywhere else to go, though, and this is possibly one of the hardest decisions he'll ever have to make in his life. 

He's about to speak when another voice interrupts them. 

“Don't let these two pressure you into staying.” 

There's a lilt in the voice, amusement, a tone that says this young male knows his sisters very well. Rango looks toward the source, as do Yasha and Tanya. 

“Fievel! You're home!” Yasha says happily, sitting up straighter in her seat. Her brother just smiles at her and then turns his attention back to Rango. 

“You do whatever you have to do,” he shrugs one shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest as he watches the lizard. Rango watches him right back, just a little taken aback that this tall, slender boy was the one that saved him from the desert. He has this little smirk on his lips that's almost daring, and there's a glint in his bright eyes that tells Rango he's being completely honest. The offer to help is there, and for once in his lonely, little life, Rango realizes that's exactly what he needs.

“If... I could stay just awhile longer, that would be very much appreciated,” he says quietly, honestly. 

“Like I said,” Fievel replies, “you do what's best for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Green River is a simple little down, quiet and quaint and content with itself. There are no secrets here, no darknesses waiting to be uncovered. The people here are honest and good and everything Rango has tried so hard and ailed to be. He feels out of place, like he really doesn't belong, but he hasn't been granted the time to entertain these thoughts and the feelings that come with them. In the forty-eight hour span, he has been awake and coherent, the Mousekewitzes have kept both his mind and body busy. He has currently been tasked by Mrs. Mousekewitz to run errands in town with her son. 

This is the first time he finds himself alone with his savior, and he all he really wants to do is thank him for saving his life. The words are lodged in his throat, though, and he can't seem to find a good time to hack them up. He thinks maybe the moment shouldn't matter, and he should just go ahead and say it, but then he notices they've suddenly arrived at the General Store. 

Later, he tells himself as they walk in. 

There's an old hamster behind the counter that whirls around at the sound of the bell above the door jingling. His gaze softens for a moment when it lands on Fievel, however it quickly hardens again once it finds him. 

“Aaah,” he shop owner croons, a small grin on his thin lips, “so this must be the lizard ve haf heard so much about.” Like Fievel's parents, this rodent also has an accent Rango has never heard before. 

Fievel grins back at him. “The one and only, Mr. Schimmel.” 

Mr. Schimmel hums in though as he fixes Rango with another hard stare. “You are very lucky, Mr. – ”

“Oh – um – Rango,” the chameleon says, and then clears his throat and adds, “and yes, I know I am.” 

Mr. Schimmel nods then looks at Fievel again. “So, vhat does your mama vant today, Mr. Sheriff?” 

At this, Rango looks toward Fievel again, just in time to see him falter. While the mouse quickly recovers and tells Mr Schimmel that they're here for the usual, Rango takes a moment to really look him over. He doesn't find a badge, though he wonders if it's perhaps hidden in his vest or in a wallet. He also notes that, really, Fievel looks a little too young to be a Sheriff. Though, he supposes, age doesn't really matter. 

“I'm not the Sheriff,” Fievel says and clears his throat, shrugging with one shoulder. “Well, not really.” 

“It is vhat he would have wanted, you know,” Mr. Schimmel says before be busies himself behind the counter, collecting some of the items Mrs. Mousekewitz frequently asks for. 

Fievel doesn't say anything in response to that, but he does catch Rango's curious and confused stare. Of all things, he just smiles and shakes his head. Rango gets a feeling that he isn't telling him to forget it, but that he'll explain later. Rango won't deny that he's wondering now, but he isn't entirely sure he wants to know. This isn't ground he's necessarily willing to tread. 

Mr. Schimmel rings the order up a few moments later, and Fievel and Rango go on their way. There is a silence between them that is only punctured by the crinkle of bags they carry of the crunch of the sand beneath their feet. They walk on like this for a few long moments before Fievel breaks the silence. 

“So, about that Sheriff comment,” he says and glances sidelong at Rango. Rango doesn't turn his head, only pivots one eye in its socket to look back at him. Fievel's never seen anybody do something like that before, and it makes him grin. 

“What about it?” Rango asks, pretending as though he hadn't thought twice on it, though he knows Fievel knows the truth. 

“I guess I am the Sheriff,” Fievel says slowly. “For now, anyway. At least until we find someone else to fill the spot.”

Rango nods, unsure of what to say to that. He knows there's more to the story than that, but he doesn't want to push. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to. 

“Our old Sheriff – Wylie Burp – ” he pauses here, takes a breath, then continues, “ – he died about a week ago.” 

Rango is still at a loss for words, but he nods to show he's listening – and patiently waiting for Fievel to continue. 

“It wasn't anything dramatic,” Fievel chuckles in spite of himself. “He just... got old.”

Rango nods again, slower this time. “There are worse ways to go,” he comments, and hopes he doesn't offend. 

Fievel grins agains and nods back. “Yeah. We were close, and I'm still getting used to him being gone.” 

“It takes time,” Rango says, though he wouldn't personally know if this is true or not. He's never truly loved and lost anyone or anything. Dirt crosses his mind, but he squashes that thought quickly, preferring to think he'll get over that town sooner than later. 

Fievel murmurs a quiet “yeah,” and doesn't now that Rango is bluffing his empathy. “The town didn't know who else to pick to fill in until we properly elect a new Sheriff. I don't mind – I'm honored, really – but those are some big shoes to fill.” There's a pause before the mouse grins crookedly at him. “And that has nothing to do with Wylie being a dog.” 

Rango finds himself grinning back, even chuckling. He thinks that Fievel must be very brace and very stong to be able to take on this role and smile in the face of his loss. 

“A dog, huh?” he inquires. “Must be a pretty diverse community. Where I'm from – ” he stops for a moment, nearly choking on his words because Dirt was never his and he has no right to recall it as such. But Fievel's looking at him so intently with those pretty blue eyes, and so Rango forces the words out. “...we, uh, we didn't have any dogs in town. Just us smaller ones. Lizards, mammals. A few birds. One amphibian.”

And by the time he's finished speaking, he regrets saying anything. If Fievel asks where he's from...

But he doesn't, and Rango lets out a little sigh of relief. 

Fievel just grins and nods again, smiling.“You're still pretty new here, so you haven't had time to really look around or get to know everybody, but Green River's full of dogs and cats.”

Rango's brows raise. “Dogs, and cats?” 

Fievel nods again. “Yes, sir. The dogs don't bother with the town much one way or another because they have their humans, but most of the cats are strays and thugs. They don't cause too much trouble anymore. Wylie... He kept them in check.” 

Rango shifts the grocery bag in his arms and clears his throat. “Aren't you worried that... um... ”

He's not sure how to ask this question, but it's already started slip-sliding through his scaly lips, so he can't stop it. 

“That without Wylie around, the cats will start acting out again?” Fievel finishes for him, and Rango nods slowly. 

“I probably shouldn't have asked.” 

“Why not? It's a fair question, and something we've all wondered about.” He shrugs and gives the lizard another faint smile. “I don't worry about it too much, though. Cats are nothing I can't handle.”

Rango wants to laugh but he feels lie Fievel isn't really joking or bluffing. So instead, he just raises his brows again, curious of the truths behind such a bold statement. In the time it takes Fievel to respond to him, he idly thinks of the hawk. He thinks of her beak and her talons and how he was able to escape bth and crush her through sheer dumb luck. 

Fievel's smile stretches into a grin, something smug and proud. “It's a long story.” 

“Pretty sure I've got the time,” Rango chuckles softly. 

Fievel chuckles, too, agreeing with the chameleon. Besides, if he's willing to listen, who is Fievel to pass up the opportunity to share his stories? So, after they've returned home an dropped off the groceries, Fievel urges Rango back outside with him. The sun is higher in the sky now, and the heat creates an itch under Rango's scales, but he doesn't mind in this particular case. They walk a little aimlessly, Fievel leading the way, and that silence comes for them again. It only lasts for a few moments before Fievel speaks up.

“Cats, right?” 

“Cats,” Rango confirms. 

And so Fievel starts from the beginning. He tells Rango how things used to be in Russia, and about the frequent Cossack attacks. He tells him he was never afraid and that he even tried to scare the cats away a few times while his family hid. “Pots and pands probably weren't the best weapon choices, now that I think about it,” he muses with a wry grin. 

Rango commends his bravery regardless and urges him to continue. 

Fievel does, and he tells him how they left Russia with high hopes that America would be better, safer. He tells him how he fell overboard and was lost at sea and how it was nobody's fault but his own. He should have listened, shouldn't have gone wandering around on the deck during a storm. He tells him about Henri and how he didn't understand what the pigeon meant by “now they are coming by bottle” then, but he does now. He tells him about the sweatshop, and about Tony and Bridgette and how he learned the hard way that cats are everywhere. 

“Nowhere is safe,” he comments with a small sigh, running his hand against the back of his neck. 

Rango listens intently to Fievel's story, and how a rat turned out to be a cat and the leader of a gang called the Mott Street Maulers. He tells him how he met Tiger and how the two have been best friends ever since. 

“Can't judge books by their covers,” he chuckles. “Tiger's a cat, and a lot older than me, but none of that matters to us.” 

Rango clears his throat and has to look away for a moment. “Yeah, things aren't always what they seem.” 

Fievel cocks a brow at him but Rango just shakes his head and mumbles, “go on.” 

So Fievel goes on to tell him how they drove the Maulers out of New York by creating their own Giant Mouse of Minsk. Fievel takes no shame in bragging that it was all his idea, too – and, really, Rango can't blame him. If he had done something so incredible, he would want to brag about it, too. 

He hopes Fievel doesn't notice just how captivated he is by all of this, by him. He's braver than Rango gave him credit for, and the lizard can tell Fievel's imagination still runs rampant and wild. And just when he thinks that's it, that's all Fievel must have to offer, the mouse grins just a little and says, “we didn't stay in New York very long, though. Just a few years. Things eventually went from bad to worse.” 

Fievel tells him about the last cat attack and the lies that drove them from New York to Green River. He tells him how he went exploring one night and overheard Cat R. Waul's plan to murder and devour the entire rodent population, after he had used them to build their own deathtrap. He tells him how he'll never quite be able to forget the way Chula cried “mouse overboard!” right before he was thrown from the train. 

“Honestly, I think I would have rather been eaten,” he grins and chuckles. He eyes Rango for just a moment as he says, “surviving alone in the desert is hard and terrible.” 

Rango gives a slow nod and speaks quietly. “Yeah. I know.” 

Fievel doesn't comment that he feels like his time in the desert and Rango's were two very different experiences. Instead, he continues his story and tells Rango how he found his way to Green River. Rango pays particular attention to just how Fievel managed to escape a hawk, and notes that dumb luck had been on the mouse's side, too. 

“I needed help,” Fievel says as they near the edge of town. “we all did, but nobody believed me when I told them what I heard on the train.” He deepens his voice and mocks his father's accent when he concludes with, “the only thing growing faster than you are your tall tales.” 

He then goes on to tell Rango how he found Wylie eventually, old and washed up and out of hope. 

“So far over the hill, he was on the bottom of the other side.” 

He tells Rango how he begged the old dog to help, and how Wylie turned him down. The rejection hadn't last long, but if Wylie was going to help him, the Sheriff had needed help of his own. Fievel tells Rango how Wylie had wanted a dog to train, but wound up with Tiger instead, and how he taught him how to fight and act like a dog. 

“I would have loved to see that,” Rango comments with a grin. 

Fievel grins back. “Yeah, it was pretty great.” 

The story goes on, and Fievel tells him how Tiger, Wylie and himself saved the mice of Green River and drove most the cats out. 

“Waul eventually came back,” he says with a shrug, as though it didn't matter then and doesn't matter now, and Rango thinks it probably doesn't. “He tried to get us all a few more times, but more often than not, I think his attacks were almost personal.” 

“Well,” Rango says and looks Fievel over, cocking his head to the side, “he obviously didn't get you. What happened?” 

Fievel shrugs. “I guess he just got bored and realized there were other, better things to do with his life than waste it trying to catch one mouse.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“Around,” Fievel says. “He lives in the funeral home.” 

“And you just let him stay? Even after everything he's done?” 

Fievel smiles at Rango, and there's something almost childlike and innocent in the gesture. “Forgive and forget, right?” 

Rango wishes, for just one moment, that more people were like that. If they were, maybe he'd still – 

He stops himself there, because there's no point in letting his mind wander down that road. What's done is done, and there's no taking it back. No one's going to hear him out and accept his apology and let him try again. 

They've wandered outside of town, and Rango notes that Fievel's destination seems to be a boulder sitting out in the sands. When they reach it, Fievel pulls himself up onto it with practiced ease, then helps Rango up when he sees him struggling to gain proper footing. After they've made themselves comfortable, Rango grins manages to conjure up a weak grin for the younger mouse. 

“Well, I definitely see what you mean now. You really do have a way with cats.” 

Fievel laughs. “It's just part of my charm.” And he winks. 

Rango has to look away and down toward the sand for a moment. He wonders if Fievel realizes just how charming he actually is, and quickly concludes, no, he doesn't. He's clever and he's brave, and though he's from big cities, he's let the west mold him into one of its own. He's young and his features haven't been hardened yet, but his personality is just about as rough-and-tumble as they come. 

Rango has to clear his throat before he can even mumble a quiet, “yeah, must be.” He hears Fievel chuckle and feels himself smiling weakly, and his color shifts just a little, taking on a rusted tinge to match the desert rock. 

They're quiet for just a few moments before Rango speaks again. “That's really some life you've lived.”

Fievel nods as he looks out into the horizon. “Tell me about it. But, you know, if I was given the chance to do it all over, I'd probably still do it all the exact same.”

Rango smiles again, faintly, and turns his gaze to the horizon as well. “That's good. No regrets.” 

“None,” Fievel assures him, then turns his attention away from the desert and to him. He's grinning. “But enough about me. What about you? What's your story?” 

Rango's color quickly returns to its natural green, and then goes just one shade paler. He stiffens beside the mouse and makes it a point to avoid meeting his stare. He doesn't know what to say, can't spit the truth out, and so he does what comes naturally: he lies. 

“I don't have a story,” he says quietly. 

Fievel eyes him, raising a brow again. “Anybody who winds up wandering alone in the desert has to have a story worth sharing.” 

Rango has to agree with him, but he can't tell him the truth. Not yet. His stiff spine suddenly softens and he loses his posture, slumping in his seat as he looks down at the sand. 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says quietly. “There really is nothing to tell. I'm just some poor, dumb bum who took a wrong turn and got lost along the way.” 

Fievel's quiet for a few seconds, then he grins and leans over, nudging Rango's ribs with his elbow. “That's some sense of direction you have, then.” 

Rango laughs weakly, gently pushing the mouse's arm away. “That's me,” he says. “Perpetually lost.” 

“Well, you know,” Fievel muses, and his grin softens into a smile, “lost things eventually have to be found.” 

His words make the flesh beneath Rango's scales prickle. He clears his throat and shakes his head and decides now is as good a time as any to get his gratitude off his chest. If he doesn't do it now, he's afraid he never will. 

“Oh – uh – speaking of. Thank you. You know, for saving my life.” 

“It was nothing,” Fievel says, and that smile somehow softens further. 

“It was definitely something for me,” Rango assures him. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.” 

“You're welcome, then.” That smile is still there. 

“I mean it. I thought I was going to die out there, one way or another. But you – this is like,” and Rango has to pause, because he realizes that maybe he was wrong before. Maybe he can have a second chance, and maybe this is it. He collects himself, clears his throat, and smiles weakly. “It's like a second chance.” 

“Well, then, as someone who's probably had more chances than he's entitled to, take my advice when I say: make it count.” 

And Rango suddenly thinks of Dirt and of Jake and how the rattler's coils felt as they flung him forward, casting him out. He thinks of the road and the Spirit of the West and how vast and empty the desert was as he walked it. Then he thinks of Fievel and all of his hardships and how he's turned out. He thinks of Wylie, an old, dead dog he never knew, and how he was able to pull himself up and out of the gutter. Wylie had turned what was left of his life around because this one little mouse believed in him, and now that same mouse is putting his faith in Rango. 

“Make it count,” Rango repeats and grins inwardly. A quiet “heh” leaves him, and then he says, “I'll give it my best shot.” 

Fievel grins back. “And I'll be rooting for you.”


End file.
